


One Week

by little-smartass (Linxcat)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, bahorel is a park fae and a big teddy bear with a questionable tshirt collection, feuilly is an introvert who overthinks A Lot, grantaire is just Like That, jehan is an excellent wingperson, silly boys in the park, the fluffiest cheesiest cutesy shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-01 21:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16773385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/little-smartass
Summary: Feuilly is a dogwalker, Bahorel spends too much time in the park, and Jehan is an excellent wingperson. All it takes is a week.





	One Week

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WilwyWaylan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilwyWaylan/gifts).



Feuilly can, at least, blame the ridiculousness of Monday on the dogs.

His morning-afternoon shift had been a lot busier than he'd anticipated, which made him late leaving, and then late to pick up Mrs Albright’s three energetic young collies. They'd squeezed excitedly around the somewhat harangued cleaner when she'd opened the door, more hyperactive than usual for the extra waiting time, and Feuilly had just _known_ they'd cause some sort of fucking trouble.

He's been walking dogs between his shifts for years now, and he's pretty good at keeping almost any breed under control, but today their combined energy almost yanks his shoulder out of its socket and leaves him half-jogging in an effort to stay on his feet. It's a relief when, after several minutes, they round the corner to the park; he'll keep them on their leads whilst they go through the play area and gardens, as a courtesy to any easily knocked over kids or old people, and then let them run when they get to the playing field. Besides the arm strain, his plan is going just fine until the introduction of a frisbee.

It soars over their heads from some little shit ahead of them on the path - and honestly, Feuilly doesn't wanna be That Guy, but frisbees aren’t allowed outside of the playing field for a reason, there’s a sign and everything? - and like three furry frisbee-seeking missiles, the dogs catch sight of it and immediately give chase. The force of the abrupt about-turn drags Feuilly around with a yelp, and he immediately collides with something that feels like a tree.

If he takes a moment to collect himself, it’s absolutely because he’s both dazed and exhausted, and absolutely not because the tree that his face is pressed against is, in fact, a pair of very well-sculpted pecs. He can hear the dogs barking, feel the wrench in his shoulder from them tugging on their leads, but it’s distant compared to the sudden introduction of Warm Solid to his face.

It’s possible that he needs more sleep.

“You okay, bro?” asks a deep voice from somewhere above the pecs, vibrating through Feuilly’s pillow pleasantly, and Feuilly peels his head back to look up.

The face is, if possible, even better than the pecs. A carefully styled beard, long dark wavy hair, an undercut - an undercut! - and dark eyes with long eyelashes. It’s like the universe took notes on his personal Jason Momoa fantasies and decided to punish him.

Or maybe, actually, reward him, because the guy is looking amused rather than like he wants to punch Feuilly. He’s also really tall, taller than anyone pressed so close up against Feuilly has any right to be, with the kind of shoulders that look like they should have, like, a cow or something slung over them, and Feuilly hasn’t felt so aware of his height and build since he was sixteen and realised that Feuillytown was the final stop on a puberty train that had already been via most of his peers.

The guy also smells really good, like expensive cologne mixed with a sort of… low-grade, rugged, sweaty smell. Feuilly has his second moment of intense self-consciousness when he remembers that there are two busy seven-hour shifts between the present moment and his last shower.  
Beefcake has very very pretty eyes, though. And a little scar through his left eyebrow that’s cool but, like, not macho in a gross way?

The dogs bark and Feuilly feels them drag on their lead, pulling his arm around, and simultaneously yanking him out of his brief but mortifying Hot Guy stupor.

“Shit!” he says, “Sorry I-” but as he tries to step back, he feels something tighten around the back of his calves and staggers.

“Easy,” says Beefcake, catching Feuilly by his upper arms and righting him like he’s nothing but a ragdoll, “Looks like your dogs have pulled a 101 Dalmations on us.”

Feuilly knows that’s a Disney, but doesn’t think he’s ever seen all of it. One of his foster sisters had it on videotape he’s pretty sure, but the vhs player in that house was unreliable, so the likelihood of him having watched it all the way through is low. At any rate, the dogs have wrapped the leads around their legs, pinning them together in a way that he’s sure he would enjoy more if they weren’t in the middle of a park, and it takes several moments of careful maneuvering to escape.

“Sorry,” he says again to Beefcake, who shrugs one of his massive shoulders as if he has smaller men collide with him and accidentally press their faces into his cleavage every day. Feuilly kind of hopes he doesn’t, though it would be less embarrassing if he did.

They stand together as Feuilly untangles the mess of leads whilst Beefcake holds the dogs still - relatively speaking - by petting and somehow paying attention to all three of them at once. When he’s done, Beefcake tells them that they're _good dogs_ in an endearingly stupid voice before looking over at him, waiting almost expectantly.

 _Say something!_ Feuilly’s brain screams, _You work in retail! You should be a fucking expert at smalltalk! Speaking words at people to make them not leave is literally your job!_

“Well,” says Beefcake, just as Feuilly summons something vaguely polite to say, “See ya around.”

He gives a friendly little wave, then taps something at his waist - phone? iPod? He’d had those tiny little wireless earphones in so a music playing device of some kind - and carries on jogging down the path. Feuilly stares after him, wistfully, despairingly.

“Balls,” he says to the dogs, with feeling.

*

The park is about halfway between Feuilly’s house and the centre of town, which means he cuts through it pretty much every day. On Tuesday mornings he has his singular art lecture of the week - thank god for the minimal contact time otherwise he'd never be able to keep up with both work and coursework - so he's thinking about whether he can justify stopping at the little uni shop next to the lecture hall for lunch and working in the studio, when he knows he should just go home to fix himself a sandwich and work there, which means he doesn't notice Beefcake jogging past until he waves.

“Hey man,” says Beefcake cheerfully. He's wearing a tight red tank top that inexplicably reads ‘ _eggs? anytime! anyplace!_ ’ and Feuilly decides to just… not ask about that one. He's also wearing very tight athletic legging things, so Feuilly carefully keeps eye contact and absolutely does not look away. He also doesn't think about how pleased this random guy seems to be to see him, because if he goes down that path he's going to turn into a mess.

“Hi,” Feuilly responds. His voice sounds weird, like it got stuck in his throat, and holy shit he's literally said one single word and he already wants to zip himself up inside his own backpack and never come out.

Beefcake jogs up to him and taps the music player at his waist - an old-school big square iPod that's not old in a ‘had it for years’ kind of way but more like he bought it last week because it's vintage or something, “No dogs today?”

“Later,” Feuilly says, “I've got a lecture now, so…”

Beefcake's smile falters for a split second, “Oh, sure, see ya around then man.”

As he watches Beefcake jog away, Feuilly contemplates whether he could fit his entire foot in his mouth literally, as it seems to have taken up permanent residence there metaphorically.

*

On Wednesday morning he wakes up to a text from his boss saying he doesn't need to come in, as the person whose shift he's supposed to be covering has managed to make it after all. Feuilly almost drops his phone on his face in glee, switches off his _Ten Minute Warning_ and _If You Haven't Left By Now You'll Be Late_ alarms, and settles back under the covers for whatever lie-in he can still salvage.

He's naturally a morning person, so it doesn't last long, but it's the principle that matters.

He spends the day around the house, tactically avoiding his housemates as they tactically avoid him; none of them really know each other, they're all oddball loners that couldn't find anyone else to live with, but no one is disgustingly messy or especially noisy, so it works well enough. He mostly annotates his sketchbook, drinks lots of coffee, and gets distracted down Wikipedia rabbit holes.

He doesn't go to the park, though a few doodles of handsome beardy faces do show up around the edges of his work pages. He turns them into a feature of his annotation and labels them _Mssr Boeuf_ , like, he's funny or something. It'll give his tutor a laugh anyway.

*

The entirety of Thursday is a hot mess, honestly.

He forgets to turn his alarms back on, which means that although he still wakes up more or less on time he's in a flustered rush the whole way to work. He's supposed to go to a meeting with his tutor afterwards - with deadlines fast approaching, slots for tutorials are snapped up quickly and he'd been pleased to snatch this one because it meant he could walk straight from work - but in his hurry to get up that morning he'd totally forgotten to pick up his sketchbook. So he runs all the way back from work, through the park, to his house, unlocks the door, darts into his bedroom, grabs his sketchbook, leaves the house, locks the door, runs back through the park, rounds the corner-

And smacks right into none other than Beefcake.

“Fuck,” Feuilly groans, from his place sprawled on his ass on the pavement. He'd gone nose-first into Beefcake’s sternum, and ow. Pecs like that have _consequences_.

Beefcake hasn't so much as staggered, naturally, and he reaches down a hand to help Feuilly up with an expression of restrained amusement, “You okay, bro?”

“You,” Feuilly says, massaging the bridge of his nose, “Are very solid.”

“We need to stop running into each other like this,” Beefcake says, and Feuilly wonders if he'd planned that line because he looks so clearly pleased with himself. He's wearing a t-shirt that says _ABC_ in big glittery letters, and a pair of neon pink running shorts which no one should be able to make look good but against all odds, Beefcake manages it.

Feuilly notices, then, that his sketchbook landed in a puddle, and grabs it with a low noise of horror. Only one corner got wet, but the fear re-kick-starts his panic over running late.

“Sorry,” he says to Beefcake, because he feels like he ought to say _something_ , and then he takes off running again.

He gets to his tutor’s office on time, and it turns out she's running late anyway, which is just fucking typical. He gets some good feedback at least; he leaves the art block feeling pleased and thinking that perhaps his shitshow of a day has turned around.

Until he puts his hand in his back pocket and realises his wallet is missing.

“Shit,” he breathes.

It's not in his tutor’s office. It's not in the little waiting area in the corridor. It's not in the bathroom he visited on that corridor. It's not in the building lost property.

The next step is to retrace his steps, and that means the park. Feuilly tries to calm the anxiety clenching his chest as he hurries out of the art block and off campus. Best case scenario, he dropped it at home when he was getting his sketchbook. Worst case, he'll need to cancel his cards, and his student ID is in that wallet so he'll have to pay to replace that, fuck, and his ID badge for work, _fuck_. More expenses he really doesn't need right now because his student loan doesn't come in for another two weeks, fuck fuck fuck.

He wants to race through the park, wants to run to let off the pent up adrenaline, but he forces himself to walk so he can keep his gaze on the ground and eyes peeled for the wallet. He gets to the area where he bumped into Beefcake and frantically searches the grass and bushes but it's not there, oh god, he keeps looking but it's definitely not-

“Hey, Feuilly!”

His head snaps up both at his name and the familiar voice. It's Beefcake, standing up from a bench across the other side of the footpath. And in Beefcake’s raised hand is his wallet.

Feuilly had always felt the white knight/damsel in distress thing was stupid and kind of condescending, but when he sees Beefcake holding his wallet the combo of adrenaline and the flood of relief honestly make him kind of light-headed, and suddenly he _totally_ gets the swooning thing. Swooning absolutely feels like a possibility right now. Either that or he'll just take Beefcake’s stupid pretty face in his hands and kiss him senseless.

“You found it,” Feuilly croaks, staggering over to Beefcake and taking the wallet. He clutches it to his chest like it might disappear if he lets go, “Oh god, _thank you_.”

“You dropped it when you ran into me,” Beefcake explains cheerfully, “By the time I saw it you'd gone, so…”

Feuilly's brain manages to make itself heard through the tidal wave of relief, “Wait, have you been… have you just been sitting here in the park waiting for me?”

Beefcake doesn't even look embarrassed, he just grins and shrugs, “Seemed creepy to try and stalk you on campus and I figured you'd come back here to look for it at some point. I had a book with me-” he gestures to a battered copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ sitting behind him on the bench, and okay, sure, hidden depths much? “-and then some kids needed someone to ref their match, so it's been a pretty chill afternoon, no worries.”

Feuilly is still thrumming with adrenaline and also kind of dumbfounded that this random guy would waste over an hour of his day just hanging out in the park waiting for him to come back, so all he can say is, “Thanks,” again.

“Did I say it right?”

“What?” says Feuilly. For the first time Beefcake looks something other than his default faintly amused; he bites his lip and shrugs again, like he's… self-conscious?

“Your name - I looked in your wallet to see if there was an address anywhere, in case you didn't show up, and I saw - your name? Feuilly?”

“Yeah,” Feuilly says, blinking. It's pretty fucking rare for anyone to get it right first try, and Beefcake lights up when Feuilly confirms it. Feuilly wonders if he googled it.

“I'm Bahorel, by the way,” says Beef- _Bahorel_ , holding out a fist knuckles-first to Feuilly, and it takes Feuilly a few seconds to realise this is meant to be a fist-bump. Bewildered but also somehow kind of charmed, Feuilly bumps his knuckles with his own. Bahorel beams.

Feuilly can't help but smile back.

With his glittery t-shirt and neon shorts and long wavy hair and muscles, Bahorel is like a frat bro who got lost in the park and turned into some sort of benevolent fae creature, doomed to return lost wallets and ref footie matches for the rest of his un-life. And he seems to have caught Feuilly under his weird spell.

He'd like to spend the rest of the afternoon there in the park, ask Bahorel about his books, and whether he goes jogging in the park _every_ day, and about the barcode tattoo Feuilly can see on his thigh, just below the bottom of his shorts - but the creeping weight of his looming deadline is a constant presence in the back of his mind.

“I need to get home,” he says, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder and hoping that he's conveying the full extent of his regret in his expression and tone, “I've got so much coursework to do.”

“Oh, sure,” Bahorel rubs the back of his neck then picks up his book to put it in his backpack, and something in Feuilly surges up.

“Do you live around here?” he blurts, “It's just you always seem to be…”

He trails off, but the sheepish expression on Bahorel’s face has slipped away into a new smile and Feuilly’s heart lifts.

“Yeah, actually, I'm just over there,” Bahorel gestures towards the eastern park exit, and Feuilly grins.

“So am I. You wanna walk together?”

“Yeah, man,” says Bahorel, “I'd like that.”

It's only five minutes before they need to take different roads, but in that time Feuilly learns that Bahorel is a Law student - though he's not entirely sure why, as the guy is completely dismissive of the idea of becoming a lawyer or going into any other law-related career.

“Why are you doing law if you hate it so much?”

Bahorel shrugs, “I'm good at it - the arguing part, anyway - and my dickhead teenage self thought that the prospect of making lots of money would be worth the bullshit, and it made my parents happy, but…” he shrugs again, “It's whatever.”

“Seems like you should be doing a different degree,” Feuilly says, raising his eyebrows.

Bahorel raises his eyebrows back with one of his big grins, “You just jump right in, don't you?”

“I work retail,” Feuilly says flatly, “I don't enjoy smalltalk anymore.”

“So you work and you're… you’ve got that sketchbook, so you're, what, an art student? Hasn't that got super crazy amounts of coursework?”

“Yeah?” Feuilly folds his arms with a frown and wonders where this is going.

“Shit, bro,” Bahorel snorts and shakes his head, “I barely make it to like one lecture a week, how do you even _live_?”

A tiny defensive flare of anger sparks up inside Feuilly; he kind of really hates it when people make a big deal over him working whilst he studies, because shit, it's not like he had a fucking _choice_ in the matter? It's not something he chose? It was a necessity. He always knew that if he wanted any further education he'd have to fight tooth and nail for it, like he has for _everything_ , and it's not like his foster parents could afford to help him either, so if he wants to eat more than once a week off what’s left from his student loan after buying art supplies, even after several years of saving up, of course he needs a job. Not _everyone_ gets to spend all day exercising and reading and-

There's a hypothetical version of Feuilly that explodes at this point. It's the version of him that exists when he's thinking in the shower or just before he goes to bed, the version of him who always wins fights and doesn't clam up around conflict.

But that sort of argument doesn't win him Hot Guy Friends, and he does really want to be friends with this guy rather than, like, be his punching bag, so. He just rolls his eyes instead.

“The work part is kind of essential for the living part,” Feuilly says dryly, then gestures to his left, “This is my street.”

Bahorel blinks at him, then winces in realisation, and Feuilly thinks that maybe he'd been sharper than intended, “Shit, man, I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean…”

Feuilly takes pity on him with a shrug, because despite his internal tirade, he kind of really doesn't want to talk about this. Also Bahorel _did_ hang about in the park for an hour to return his wallet, so it's difficult to stay annoyed, “It's fine, I know you didn't mean anything by it.”

“I'm working on the dismantling-personal-privilege thing,” Bahorel admits, which, wow, Feuilly apparently needs to do less of the judging-books-by-their-covers stuff because he's legitimately taken aback. Bahorel makes a motion with his hands like he wants to shove them in his pockets, then realises his tiny pink shorts don't have pockets, so just tucks his hands under his armpits instead. On someone who's usually so self-confident, the awkward gesture is very endearing.

Feuilly can't hold back a smile, “It's okay, we're good.”

“We're good?”

Feuilly holds out his closed fist and, with an expression of delight, Bahorel bumps their knuckles together, “Yeah, man, we're good.”

“I'll see you around, then,” Bahorel says, taking a few steps backwards so he can wave as Feuilly turns down his street.

“See you around,” Feuilly calls back.

God, he thinks emphatically, I sure fucking hope so.

*

Feuilly gets his wish earlier than he expects, although it's not entirely serendipitous as on Friday he deliberately takes the longer path through the park, there and back, both times he leaves the house. He doesn't see Bahorel in the morning when he heads out to his mandatory course workshop on using the campus library's reference system, or when he comes back with his backpack stuffed from his grocery run. He spends the day ploughing through coursework and thank fuck, he seems to be making a dent, and he absolutely doesn't daydream about bumping into Bahorel in the park again.

He's super focused. Super super focused. He does lots of coursework and totally doesn't think about cute guys, or one cute guy in particular. Like, at all.

Well, maybe a little. But he can multitask!

Later, he heads out to pick up Mrs Albright’s dogs for their walk. On Fridays he walks them in the evening because Mrs Albright’s schedule is one huge fucking mystery that Feuilly has never been able to solve - like why someone who's always so busy would get three very energetic dogs that they never have time to walk themselves? Though he's given up trying to understand the behaviour of the kind of people who can afford houses as fancy as hers, and housekeepers to come over every day to maintain them.

He heads to the park with the collies, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little hopeful.

There's no sign of Bahorel on the paths through the garden and play areas. When he gets to the large open grassy area he lets the dogs off their leads and settles down on a bench, armed with a handful of sticks he found on the way that should keep fetch going for a reasonable amount of time. He keeps one eye on the path. Just in case.

Five minutes later, he’s just gearing up to throw the final stick, resolved to head home back to the joys of sketchbook annotation, when he sees two people on the path, one of whom - by their bulk and height - is easily recognisable as Bahorel. He’s wearing a tight black shirt with Hello Kitty printed on the front and well-fitted grey tracksuit bottoms. Walking beside Bahorel is a slim figure wearing a dark green halterneck top with a huge skull on it and a pair of eye-wateringly bright yellow leopard print leggings. Feuilly feels an immediate stab of solidarity with them as they also have pasty pale skin covered in a swarm of freckles, but instead of the curly carrot-orange hair Feuilly has, they've got sleek auburn hair, twisted into a complex knot on top of their head.

Bahorel and his friend are engrossed in conversation so Feuilly keeps his head down, ready to pull out the totally-pleasantly-surprised-absolutely-didn’t-see-you-there reaction, and also frantically trying to come up with a cool and not weird way to get their attention, should they not notice him.

He doesn’t need to worry in the end. Bahorel sees him when they’re about ten feet away and calls his name excitedly, making something warm bloom inside of Feuilly’s chest.

“This is my park buddy Feuilly,” Bahorel says to his friend, gesturing to Feuilly as they approach, “And these are his - oh! Dogs!”

Bahorel runs off to the dogs, who, sensing a new playmate, begin to energetically display their favourite sticks for him to attempt to steal. Feuilly and Bahorel’s freckly friend watch him, then turn back towards each other with matching semi-awkward smiles.

“They're not my dogs,” Feuilly admits, for lack of better conversation, “I'm, uh, I'm a dogwalker.”

The friend nods politely, “I'm Jehan, by the way - Bahorel’s housemate.”

Relief fills Feuilly’s body, though he hadn't even realised he'd been tense, and after a moment he recognises that it's because Jehan is Bahorel's _housemate_ , not his significant other. Does Feuilly really like this strange guy from the park enough to feel _jealous_ over him?

Fuck, he's in trouble.

Bahorel jogs back over, the dogs at his heels, flushed and grinning broadly.

“ _Rex Canum_ ,” says Jehan, amused, then glances at Feuilly, “King of the Dogs.”

Bahorel laughs exactly the way Feuilly expects him to, the sound escaping from his chest like a rumbling sonic boom. It's infectious; Feuilly snorts and shakes his head.

“You managed to keep hold of your wallet today, then?” Bahorel asks teasingly.

Feuilly rolls his eyes and pulls the wallet from his back pocket, “Yeah, just about managed it.”

“Well, if you lose it again, you know where to find me.”

“I do?”

Bahorel stretches out his arms, “Yeah, man, just come stand in the middle of the path right here, and given our record this week I'll bump into you eventually.”

“I don't have time to come and stand in the park all day,” Feuilly says, “Some of us have more to do than exercise and read classic literature.”

Bahorel smiles, and the warmth in his eyes fills Feuilly from head to toe.

“You mean you wouldn't wait for me?” Bahorel asks, tongue poking out from between his teeth as his smile turns sly, and his tone is conspiratorial, teasing and suggestive, and oh god, is this flirting? This feels dangerously close to flirting.

Jehan must sense the flirting, as they cut in softly but firmly with a regretful wince, “Baz, we need to go.”

“Oh,” says Bahorel, deflating somewhat, “Yeah, sure. Kickboxing class,” he explains to Feuilly with a little shrug.

“Oh, nice,” Feuilly smiles vaguely, “Well, I guess I'll see you around.”

“Seems pretty likely,” Bahorel says, smirking just a little. Feuilly returns the smirk, waves as the two friends set off, then pulls the dog leads from his jacket pocket and stands up, ready to attempt to wrestle the three hyped up collies back home.

As he clips on the last lead, he glances over his shoulder at the path Bahorel and Jehan had walked away along, and catches Jehan looking back. They meet his eye, silently point at Feuilly, then at Bahorel’s oblivious back, then they give an exaggerated thumbs up.

Heat rushes to Feuilly’s face. Had he really been that obvious? It’s a nice kind of embarrassment though.

Feuilly gives a thumbs up back and feels fuzzy the whole way home.

*

Saturday is a whirlwind of busyness with a bright spot around midday which, predictably for his life now, takes place in the park. He has the opening shift that drags on until late afternoon, and because it's a nice day he decides to take his 2pm lunch break in the nice flower garden, next to the park's eastern gate path, and yes, he absolutely has ulterior motives for the choice of bench

He's given up lying to himself by now.

He's halfway through his second homemade sandwich when he sees the familiar figure of Bahorel approaching down the path, today wearing a deep red hoodie and black exercise leggings, with his long dark hair all pulled up in a bun and a large gym bag slung over his shoulder. He's walking with someone else, though this time it's not Jehan, bizarrely it's actually someone Feuilly knows - Grantaire, from his course.

After his generalised surprise over how small the world apparently is, Feuilly actually feels like it makes sense that they're friends? They're both bizarre cryptid-like guys with hidden depths. At first Feuilly had dismissed Grantaire as just another stoner leeching off his rich parents’ money looking for an easy pass through uni, though when he got to know him he discovered that he is definitely a stoner leeching off his rich parents’ money looking for an easy pass through uni, but he knows a hell of a lot about a hell of a lot and is actually a pretty decent artist when he puts his mind to it. He only ever seems to create one of two extremes; either his work is so bizarre and nonsensical that it swings back around and becomes good art _ironically_ because… art, or he paints beautiful semi-realistic portraits that are almost like religious iconography in their reverence, all of an angelic man with cascading blond curls.

Grantaire is generally pretty chill, happy to share cigarettes or smuggled-in beers and always ready with a sarcastic remark from the back of the lecture hall on the rare occasions he actually bothers to turn up, but Feuilly had made the drastic, catastrophic error of asking about the man in his paintings once, and had been treated to a nearly hour long semi-hysterical rant. Feuilly had actually put one of his earphones in and he's pretty confident Grantaire didn't even notice.

Feuilly has not brought him up again.

He finishes his sandwich quickly then stands and waits until Bahorel and Grantaire are within a reasonable distance to wave to them. Bahorel cheerfully waves back. Grantaire is confused for a moment, but then calls, “Hey, small fucking world. Baz, you didn't tell me _Feuilly_ was Park Guy.”

Feuilly thinks - _Park Guy?_ \- as Bahorel turns to Grantaire in confusion, “Wait, you two know each other?”

“Yeah, we sit together in studio,” Grantaire grins at Feuilly around his cigarette as they approach, now at the appropriate distance for a normal conversation, “He made like five hundred of these intricate little fans last year, all delicately painted and shit, it was pretty awesome.”

“It was fifty,” Feuilly corrects him, flushing. He can almost feel his fingers start to ache again as he thinks about painting all those fucking fans. And then, to direct the embarrassment away from himself he says, “So, ‘Park Guy'?”

Bahorel shrugs expansively, shifting the bag on his shoulder, “I've bumped into you in the park nearly every day this week, it seemed appropriate.”

“It is starting to feel like more than a coincidence. Are you sure you're not just living on the other side of that hedge in a tent, just waiting for me to walk past?” Feuilly asks, raising an eyebrow. Grantaire bursts into laughter, slapping Bahorel on the back, and about 0.3 seconds later Feuilly realises that he's just called Bahorel a creepy stalker.

Fuck.

It's only the loud hilarity of Grantaire that stops Feuilly literally dissolving into a puddle of mortification on the pavement. Thankfully Bahorel looks amused rather than angry, though he rubs the back of his neck and Feuilly wonders with a terrible but intoxicating kind of hope if he really is trying as hard to coincidentally be in the park as much as Feuilly is. That, maybe, god help him, just _maybe_ Bahorel thinks he's cute, too?

Feuilly looks at his watch, then sighs, “I need to get back to my shift,” he says mournfully, gesturing over his shoulder.

“We're headed that way too,” Bahorel says quickly, so Feuilly smiles, grabs his stuff and walks with them.

“The gym?” Feuilly surmises, nodding to the bags slung over their shoulders, “Are you, like, contractually obliged to exercise _every_ single day?”

Grantaire leans around Bahorel, “He absolutely is, but today is my fault - my dance partner sprained their ankle and this meatball is the only person I know who has a dance background and is enough of a layabout to be available on short notice.”

A dance background? Seriously? Feuilly looks up at Bahorel and tries to imagine him in a leotard and dancing tights.

It's a bad idea, oh god. Feuilly frantically tries to banish the image from his mind before anyone notices how red he's gone.

“You'd be a layabout too if the other option was becoming a _lawyer_ ,” Bahorel grumbles.

“Yeah, okay,” Grantaire says after a few moments, “That's fair.”

Upon reaching the end of the park, their routes diverge.

“We should hang out for real sometime,” Bahorel says, with one of his easy smiles and a tone low enough to convey that he's being serious, “Not just bumping into each other in the park, I mean.”

Feuilly feels a slow grin spreading across his face, “Yeah, I'd like that.”

“There's a protest-planning meeting here in the park tomorrow afternoon, my friends and I will be there - if you wanted to come? It's not just political shit, people are bringing food so we'll have like, a picnic or whatever.”

“I like political shit,” Feuilly reassures him, “Though I am working most of the day, the only time I'll get to come to the park during the afternoon will be when I'm walking the dogs.”

“That's cool, we all like dogs,” Bahorel says - and then adds, as if to reassure him, “Jehan will be there, and Grantaire will be too.”

“Eh,” Grantaire says flatly, “Will I?”

“You will, cause you never miss an opportunity to oggle our fearless leader.”

Grantaire, who'd turned his head to the side to exhale a plume of smoke, abruptly turns back and slaps Bahorel on the arm, “Dick!”

However, the way he then turns to Feuilly and says, in a tone of great resignation, “Though he is right,” somewhat undermines the initial indignation.

Feuilly thinks of the endless portraits of the blond man, and wonders if these two people are the same. He hopes they are, for Grantaire’s sake; being that devoted to more than one person would be _exhausting_.

“Sounds like a plan then,” Feuilly says, “I'll see you guys tomorrow afternoon.”

They part ways cheerfully, Feuilly's brain already jumping into overthinking mode and desperately trying to generate outfits to wear tomorrow out of his somewhat limited wardrobe that might he considered cool, and then internally lamenting because oh god! He's in his mid twenties! He has no fucking idea what's cool any more! He's not sure he ever did!

 _Calm down, it's not like it's a date_ , the sensible part of his mind points out.

 _But what if it is?_ The part of his brain still trying outfits on a mental projection of himself like he's a fucking dressup doll says, _We haven't been on a date in years, maybe this is how people date now, maybe dates with a bunch of other people around are a thing!_

Thankfully, his thoughts are interrupted.

“He teaches dance classes for little children!” Grantaire yells over his shoulder, “It's devastatingly attractive!”

Feuilly turns around in time to see Bahorel laugh and shove Grantaire’s shoulder so that he staggers. Bahorel doesn't seem embarrassed or self-conscious though, and Feuilly’s brain immediately jumps into trying to analyse if that's a good thing or not.

As he hurriedly clocks into work, he thinks, _I am so fucked_.

*

Knowing he's going to meet Bahorel for a probably-not-a-date-but-maybe-kind-of in the afternoon makes Feuilly’s morning shift drag more unbearably than usual. When it's finally over he clocks out faster than he can ever remember doing before and ducks into the bathroom to change out of his work shirt. From there, he speeds to Mrs Albright’s to pick up the dogs, and almost keeps pace with them on the way to the park.

It's not hard to find the friends Bahorel mentioned, as it turns out there are nearly fifteen of them all sprawled out on picnic rugs on the main playing field. Jehan is the first one Feuilly recognises; their lap is pillowing the head of a short dark-haired guy, who has his feet in another guy's lap with whom he seems to be embroiled in a loud debate whilst Jehan attempts to weave flowers into his curly hair. The guy keeps half sitting up in his excitement and Jehan is starting to look annoyed.

Grantaire is at the back, distractedly playing cards with two guys in between sneaking looks over his shoulder at someone - someone who is very familiar, though Feuilly has never met them before - an angelic-faced man with a cascade of blond curls barely restrained in a ponytail, enthusiastically giving some sort of speech to a couple sitting on the fringe of the group. The girl looks enthralled and is nodding along, and the guy looks like a deer in headlights. Seeing Blond Boy in the flesh makes Feuilly somewhat sympathetic to the plight of Grantaire’s heart... even if he's less sympathetic to the symptoms of said obsession.

He scans the group again, then a third time.

He can't see Bahorel.

Blond Boy must see him hovering, because he catches Feuilly’s eye and waves, gesturing that he join them. Several other members of the group turn towards him, including Grantaire, who fires off a lazy salute.

Trapped by social convention, Feuilly approaches. Where the hell is Bahorel? Jehan and Grantaire are there, so this must be the right group. Maybe he's ill? Maybe it's some sort of… weird prank, designed to get Feuilly’s hopes up then dramatically dash them?

“Hi,” calls Blond Boy, “You must be Feuilly, Bahorel said-”

There's a shout from the side of the playing field and Feuilly turns to see Bahorel bounding out of the children's play area with a kid on his shoulders.

“Dogs!” the kid yells, stretching out one arm to point imperiously towards Feuilly, and Bahorel obediently arcs around like a plane towards them.

Feuilly heart lifts in his chest and he can't help but laugh as Bahorel runs over, careens to a stop, then lets the kid down with a deliberately smarmy “Thank you for flying Air Bahorel.”

The kid can't be more than ten years old, kind of scrawny but with a sharp look in his eyes that speaks of intelligence beyond his meagre age. He immediately flings himself at the dogs, giggling as they surge up delightedly at his attention and thoroughly lick his face. Bahorel watches the kid with a kind of fondness in his eyes that makes Feuilly’s now buoyant heart constrict in a pleasant way - especially when he looks up and that fond warmth is directed at Feuilly.

“Gav!” yells a young woman who Feuilly hadn't noticed in all of… well, _Bahorel_ , following along behind them with a teenage girl who seems to be somewhat reluctantly in tow, “Oh my god, how many times, ask before you pet someone’s dog!”

Gav looks over his shoulder and makes a loud farting noise in her direction, but does turn back to Feuilly and asks in tones of great exasperation, “Can I pet your dogs?”

“Go for it,” says Feuilly, barely holding back laughter for the sake of the kid's harangued caretaker. He unclips the dog leads and Gav smugly resumes cuddling them.

“Glad you could make it, man,” Bahorel says, beaming. Today he's wearing a t-shirt that says ‘ _I put the BI in BICEPS_ ' - which Feuilly tries really hard not to read anything into - and some very maroon jeans. He's got the cuffs rolled up to show a sliver of ankle in a style Feuilly has always found stupid, but once again, _somehow_ , Bahorel pulls it off. The man is a mystery.

“I can't stay long,” Feuilly warns him.

Bahorel nods, “Sure, sure, of course. Oh, this is Enjolras,” he points to Blond Boy, “That's Eponine and her sister Azelma,” a gesture to the two young women, “And this is the coolest person to ever walk this goddamn earth, Gavroche.”

Gavroche looks up at his name and offers Feuilly a fist to bump. Feuilly wonders whether he got that habit from Bahorel, or if it is Bahorel mimicking the kid. Considering what he knows of them both either could be possible.

“So,” Enjolras says, eager in a way that makes Feuilly suspect he's been barely holding himself back waiting for the right time to jump in, “I don't know if Bahorel told you but this isn't just a social meeting, we're actually here to a plan a protest-”

Feuilly gets drawn into Enjolras’ speech, and in the same way he'd been sort of morbidly mesmerised by Grantaire’s despairing ranting, he feels like Enjolras’ words hold him captive by sheer charisma. If a halo sprung into being above his head and a flaming sword unsheathed itself in his hand, Feuilly wouldn't even be surprised, and would absolutely follow him over the top of society’s trenches and into the no-man's-land of like… higher existence or justice or something. Whatever, Enjolras is made for passion and lost causes and stupid poetic metaphors. He was probably a martyr in a past life.

As he finds himself nodding along, dazzled by the light of Enjolras’ fervour, Feuilly suddenly _gets_ Grantaire a lot more. He's not sure how long he stands there, but he's vaguely aware of Gavroche and Bahorel moving away with the dogs in his peripheral vision.

It turns out Bahorel’s friends are a university-affiliated social justice group, and it's not just Enjolras’ magnetic intensity that draws Feuilly in, it's the prospect of being part of a community striving to do better. It might sound sort of cliché, but leaving his foster parents’ small town for job prospects in a bigger city and then, a few years later, being an older student with little time or interest for partying, has left him feeling… isolated. He likes the idea of being part of a group.

“Hey, Jojo,” yells a voice. Feuilly and Enjolras turn towards it; Enjolras still burning with inner righteousness and Feuilly mildly dazed in its brightness. It's the guy who was debating earlier, who now has clovers weaved haphazardly into his dark curls. It's a good look, Feuilly thinks vaguely. “Come and settle something for us, would you? Combeferre just realised the moral implications of both sides of the argument and now he's paralysed with indecision.”

“Sure,” Enjolras calls back, smiling, then redirects his laser focus back to Feuilly. He presses a hand to Feuilly’s shoulder, “So will we see you at the meeting this Wednesday?”

“Absolutely,” says Feuilly, because there's not really any other answer he can give.

Enjolras beams and squeezes Feuilly’s shoulder, “I'm glad you came today, I feel like we're going to be good friends.”

And with that, he strides off, eighty percent long legs and twenty percent moral conviction. Feuilly stares after him, blinking.

“He's a great guy, but he's kind of intense one-on-one,” says a gentle voice behind him. Feuilly jumps and spins to see Jehan smiling at him, “I thought you might need rescuing.”

“Uh,” says Feuilly, eloquently.

Jehan snorts, then gestures over their shoulder, “Go find Bahorel, he keeps giving you the most disgusting puppydog eyes.”

Feuilly has difficulty imagining Bahorel giving _anyone_ puppydog eyes, but he nods gratefully and approaches where Gavroche, Bahorel, Grantaire and another guy Feuilly doesn't know the name of are using a mangled old frisbee to send the dogs sprinting up and down the field. The unnamed guy is tall, which Feuilly is sure should give him an advantage in the game, but somehow every time the frisbee comes near him it either clonks him in the head or he fumbles it and gets mobbed by the dogs.

Bahorel notices him walking over and flings the frisbee in an impressively high arc, and as a loudly protesting Gavroche bolts for it, he leaves the game to meet Feuilly half way.

“Hey,” says Feuilly, tucking his hands in his pockets. Bahorel is wearing eyeliner today and it makes his dark eyes look particularly enticing. “Thanks for keeping the dogs occupied, I got kind of… waylaid.”

Bahorel laughs, “It's fine, talking to Enjolras when he's in Avenging Angel mode is like getting caught in Sauron’s eye beam,” he gestures with his fingers like they're shooting out of his face into Feuilly’s. Feuilly, who has battered dog-eared copies of all the Lord of the Rings books tucked carefully away in his desk drawer like precious artefacts, finds himself once again strangely charmed, “In a good way, obviously.”

“It is a bit,” Feuilly admits with a grin.

“If it helps, he's a massive fucking _dork_ about literally everything else.”

“You're kidding.”

Bahorel presses his hand solemnly to his heart, “No word of a lie, ask him about memes sometime and prepare to have your insides shrivel up in second-hand embarrassment.”

Feuilly shakes his head, “I'll, uh, I'll take your word for it.”

Bahorel snorts. They stand side by side, watching as the unnamed guy trips over his own feet trying to catch the frisbee. The silence is comfortable but Feuilly doesn't want Bahorel to leave and go back to the game, so he fishes for more conversation.

“So how did you meet this lot?” he asks.

“Oh man, that's a good story,” says Bahorel excitedly, “So about six months ago I’m walking through the city centre, Saturday afternoon, just doing my thing, there's lots of sales on, whatever, when I see this big crowd of people with signs and shit, and I think, could be interesting, I'll check it out. So I kinda push my way in a bit just to see what it's about and right in the middle I see Enjolras yelling at these three asshole-looking guys, and then they start calling him… well, shitty homophobic stuff, right? And I'm like, that's not fucking cool, but I don't wanna jump in if he's got this, you know? So I watch, and I realise that this kid is _absolutely_ gearing up to fight them. Absolute madman. And like, props to him, Enjolras is scrappy, but he's like, fifty pounds soaking wet, and his only backup is Courf, who again would absolutely throw down for social justice and is a fucking tiny badass, but still not gonna get super far with three big skinhead neo-nazi types. So when things started to escalate, I, uh, well I figured I'd... even the odds a bit.”

Bahorel cracks his knuckles, grinning.

“Holy shit,” Feuilly says, “What happened?”

“Punching, mostly - and not just me, Jehan turned up totally out of nowhere like this skinny whirlwind of fists and freckles, it was awesome, we kicked so much ass. And then Courf was like ‘we should do this again sometime, we should be friends, we should make a Punching Dickheads club’, and then Enjolras introduced us to Combeferre, who introduced us to his classmate Joly, and things just… spiralled, really.”

“That is a pretty good story,” Feuilly admits, then checks his watch and winces, “Crap, I gotta go take these monsters back to their owner. Enjolras told me about a meeting on Wednesday, I’ll see you then?”

Bahorel raises his eyebrows, “You mean you’re not gonna be walking through the park tomorrow?”

“No promises,” says Feuilly, grinning.

*

On Monday, Feuilly wakes up buzzing with a kind of nervous energy, and he realises that his brain - without consulting the rest of him, apparently - has decided that enough is enough. He’s getting tired of this weird dancing around with Bahorel, pretending that they’re bumping into each other by chance, that none of this is on purpose. He wants to get to know him properly, go for a coffee, hang out somewhere besides the bloody park. He wants to talk about books, and the stories behind Bahorel’s tattoos, and hear more ridiculous anecdotes about fights Bahorel’s gotten into, and share some of his own.

He’d also kind of really like to kiss him, and feel if his hair is as soft as it looks, and… maybe other things too, someday. But they all pale in comparison to the excited fluttery feeling that he gets at the thought of even just hanging out with Bahorel.

He goes through the motions on his morning to afternoon shift, mind elsewhere. He’s gotten very good at this kind of escapism; plotting out stories and adventures whilst his hands work on autopilot. Today though his brain works on imaginary conversations and all the clever, suave things he could say next time he meets Bahorel - perhaps Feuilly could take him to the coffee shop where he used to work and still knows several of the baristas, and get them to write something cute in the foam of Bahorel’s drink. He could take Bahorel to a gallery where one of his coursemates is exhibiting and be super impressive with his artistic insight. He could look him up on social media and send him an invite to a local music festival he heard about in the next town over - he’s not sure what kind of music Bahorel likes but he could probably make an educated guess.

Or, most likely, he thinks glumly, he’ll see him at the meeting on Wednesday and go bright red and clam up.

After his shift he heads to Mrs Albright’s to get the dogs. He’s got a lot of coursework to get finished in the evening so he doesn’t have time to linger conspicuously around the park like he’s been doing all week, which is a pity but it does take the edge off his nerves. With all the daydreaming he’s been doing he’s worried that if he were to just bump into Bahorel he might wind up doing something impulsive and… stupid.

There’s no time for fetch today. He only briefly lets the dogs off their leads at the playing field for a bit of a run, but quickly entices them back with treats. They finish up the circuit of the park and Feuilly glances at his watch as they head towards the gates; he’s on time and if he can get the dogs home then get back to his house quickly, he’ll have a solid block of time to finish up the final piece for his project.

“Hey!”

The dogs recognise the voice of their new favourite person before Feuilly does. Before he’s even fully registered who it is, he feels his arms yanked around as the full force of three enthusiastic collies drags him through an about-turn and right into something very solid.

“Fuck,” Feuilly groans, face scrunching up and both hands going to cradle his bruised nose, struggling to simultaneously keep hold of the leads as the dogs excitedly run in circles.

He feels a warm, gentle grip on each shoulder steadying him, then one grip eases and a hand tilts his chin up. Feuilly opens his eyes to see Bahorel because… of course it’s Bahorel. “You okay, man?”

Bahorel has his hair down, but it’s tucked behind his ears. Little strands that are too short to be tucked are hanging in his face. He’s not wearing eyeliner today but there’s the tiniest shimmer of gold dusted on his eyelids, and a smudge of it right over the scar that cuts through his eyebrow, like he didn’t take off his makeup properly the night before and it smeared as he slept. It makes his brown eyes glitter and the idea of him being a park fae feel less like a joke.

Bahorel’s hand is warm against Feuilly’s chin. He feels Bahorel’s thumb stroke lightly over the stubble there.

Feuilly’s mouth is dry.

He’s absolutely gonna do something stupid.

“I’m gonna-” Feuilly swallows, “I’m gonna just- look, don’t freak out, okay?”

Bahorel nods, a little confused, but there’s something in his eyes that suggests he might have an idea of where this is going.

Feuilly leans up onto his tiptoes and presses their mouths together in a brief, chaste kiss, then drops back down onto his heels and frantically searches Bahorel’s face for any sign of discomfort.

Bahorel looks stunned for a moment, then gives one his bright grins and says, “Oh thank _god_ ,” before wrapping his arms around Feuilly and giving him a kiss that isn’t brief or chaste at all and has such intensity that it almost lifts Feuilly off his feet.

When Bahorel puts Feuilly down and leans back, he rests his hands on either side of Feuilly’s neck, and Feuilly smiles so hard his cheeks ache.

“D’you want to go on a date?” Feuilly asks softly.

Bahorel laughs, “Yeah, I really do.”

Feuilly tucks his hands into the pockets of Bahorel’s bomber jacket, “Do you want to go on a date with _me_?”

“Yes,” says Bahorel, grin broadening, “I really do.”

“I need to take the dogs back, and then this evening I have coursework to do, but if you’re free we can get takeout and put a movie on whilst I work?”

“That sounds awesome,” Bahorel says, and then he bites his lip, “Oh my god, I am so glad you made the first move though - I was hoping I’d meet you in the park today and I had absolutely the _worst_ idea to ask you out.”

Feuilly raises one eyebrow incredulously, “If it’s so awful why were you going to do it?”

“I… thought you might find it funny and take pity on me?”

“Well, you can't say that and then not _tell_ me.”

Bahorel sighs and steps back, unzipping his bomber jacket. Pinned to the front, written in thick red sharpie, is a piece of paper that says ‘ _FEUILLY WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME YES/ NO/ MAYBE_ ’. “I was gonna get you to circle your answer but then I forgot the pen and… well, your way was better.”

“Oh my god,” Feuilly says, covering his face with his hands, “That is so terrible that I’m actually kind of gutted that you didn’t get a chance to do it.”

Bahorel grins again, obnoxiously smug, and takes Feuilly’s hand away from his face and laces their fingers together, “But you _kissed_ me instead.”

“God help me, I did.”

When Bahorel pouts, Feuilly kisses him again. It feels natural and fills him with warmth from head to toe. As they walk together, dogs running excited circles around Bahorel and wrapping him up in their leads, making him stagger and laugh, Feuilly thinks that this Monday is the start of a very good week.

Still holding hands, they walk out of the park.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this, WilwyWaylan :) happy holidays!


End file.
